


Please

by TortiQuercu



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: 5+1 Things, F/M, Gen, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 11:57:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4665702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TortiQuercu/pseuds/TortiQuercu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Please", or 5 times Solo was enlightened, and 1 time it really didn't matter. 5 plus 1 vignettes, pure unabashed Gallya.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Please

**Author's Note:**

> I've never tried a story in the 5+1 format before... we're about to fix that! I hope you enjoy the experiment. :D

1.

It had been bugging him for days, so in Istanbul, Solo flat out asked her. "I don't get it," he had said. "I thought East German women hated Russians."

"They do," Gaby replied without lowering the binoculars through which she was watching Illya scale a wall of the Dolmabahçe Palace. "After Potsdam, the Red Army occupied and many women were…" she paused, clearing her throat. "The Russians are still often feared," she amended. "I was just a small child."

"Your family… your adopted family, I mean," he continued. "They didn't fear?"

Gaby finally pulled away from the binoculars and fixed him with a steady gaze. "And here I thought you would've noticed that I was raised rather like a boy."

"Oh," exclaimed Solo thoughtfully. "Yes! That makes much more sense now."

2.

"What about these?" Gaby asked as she lounged on the sofa, holding her Vogue magazine open.

Illya looked up from his chessboard, the briefest of glances, and shook his head. "I do not like these stilettos. What would you do if you had to run?"

"There you go, Gabs," laughed Solo from his perch at the bar. He gestured at her with his whiskey glass, ice cubes clinking. "Obviously we should find you some tennis shoes."

Illya made a disgusted noise. "Solo, why do you persist with this desire to dress your woman like your mother?"

" _Your woman_ ," Gaby imitated in a deep voice, and she began to laugh. The look Illya gave her was flat and unimpressed.

Solo wondered if Gaby even knew she had slid her feet into Illya's lap a while ago. He also wondered if Illya realized he was massaging them idly with one huge hand while the other hovered over his chessboard. He smirked into his old fashioned. If they hadn't noticed, he certainly wasn't going to tell them.

3.

"Have you ever seduced someone for a mission?"

In the back of the van, Solo and Illya traded awkward glances.

"Which one of us are you asking?" Illya grumbled in response.

From the driver's seat, Gaby met his eyes in the rearview mirror. "You. We all know that Solo has."

Illya shifted uncomfortably and looked out the window. "Keep your eyes on road."

"Don't tell me how to drive, Kuryakin," she chided him. "I can talk and steer just fine. Well? Are you just not going to answer?"

Illya scoffed. "Do I  _really_  look like a… what do you call them? A honey pot? Do I look like honey pot to you?"

"I don't think you want her to answer that, Peril," Solo jumped in with a sharp laugh. "You're built like a truck and your motor is always running hot, I think you're  _exactly_  what a honey pot looks like to her…."

"Shut up, Solo," Gaby snapped back at him.

"…. it's more of a honey carburetor, really…"

"SOLO."

"It's a fair observation," the American protested smoothly. He pursed his lips at Kuryakin, who was clenching his jaw and scowling out the window now.

They continued in silence for several minutes.

"Head's down, we're almost there," Gaby declared eventually. The men complied, pressing themselves to the floor of the Volkswagen.

"It's not like it's a big deal for a field operative, you know," Solo whispered to the Russian. "Why not simply admit you've seduced a mark?"

"Who says I ever have?" Illya replied nonchalantly.

Solo just stared at him.

4.

She failed to bite back a gurgle of pain as Solo tried to knot the bandage tight across her ribs.

"Stay strong, Gaby," he beseeched her, his fingers slick with her blood and slipping. "Blast it!"

"Do you need help?" Illya appeared at his side. Solo glanced back at him, noting an unusual pallor in the Russian's face.

"You've helped plenty for one night, don't you think?" Solo spat at him.

Illya's eyes flashed but he stayed silent. He looked down at the copious blood fountaining from Gaby's side, and a muscle in his jaw twitched visibly.

"Honest to God," continued Solo tersely. "I've heard of bringing a knife to a gun fight, but who the hell brings a  _girl_  to a  _knife_  fight?"

"Solo, stop," begged Gaby, batting her hand feebly at him.

Napoleon made a derisive noise and continued to put pressure on her side. Another pair of hands joined his unexpectedly. He gave Kuryakin a testy side-eyed glance.

"Don't talk about her like that," Illya ground out, his syllables clipped. "You make sound like she was… was… less than a knife."

"She wasn't ready!"

"She fought admirably."

"She shouldn't have been _fighting_  at all," Solo snarled. "This is your fault, Peril. You were on surveillance and you misread this situation."

"Boys, please," Gaby tried to interject weakly. "It was my choice to go in with Illya."

Solo ignored her. "You and I, we've been trained for this. We were  _forged_  for espionage. Gaby got a whirlwind course in how to use a radio and what the head of MI5 likes for his afternoon tea."

"You are being offensive," Illya complained while removing his jacket. He quickly wadded it up and carefully tucked it under Gaby's head.

"Tell me I'm wrong, Gabs," Solo argued.

"Twiddle the knobs, scones with clotted cream and black currant jelly," she replied with a wince. "Also, Illya is right. You  _are_  being offensive."

Solo frowned but sat back on his heels in defeat. After a moment, he huffed. "I'm… I'm sorry. I was worried, that's all."

Illya was gently brushing the hair from Gaby's face. "I am no less worried, I assure you," he whispered, but Solo didn't think he was talking to him anymore. "You fought like a tiger, Gabriella, even with a knife between your ribs. It was beautiful. But please, let's not do it again, yes?"

"I can't make any promises," she replied softly, closing her eyes. Illya swallowed hard, and gave Solo a look of desperation that the American never imagined he'd ever see on that face.

"Let's get out of here," Solo decided briskly, jumping to his feet. "And I think we're all agreed that once this mess is cleaned up, Gaby gets some combat training."

"That's better," Gaby murmured. "I'll show you, Solo. Next time, you'll be  _begging_  to take the girl to a knife fight."

5.

Solo returned from the pool-side bar with two tall glasses of something that looked fruity, garnished with cherries and little frilly paper umbrellas.

"Those look ridiculous," offered Illya. "Everything that is grossly decadent about the West, in one glass."

"And that's why I didn't get you one, Peril," Solo grinned, handing a glass to Gaby. She cooed with appreciation, reaching up from her brightly-patterned beach blanket. "Alright, Gabs. It can't be all play and no work. Let's work on your Russian. Gimme a please and a thank-you."

"Пожалуйста. Cпасибо," she replied before taking a long sip of the tropical cocktail.

Solo winced slightly. "Poh- _ZHAL_ -uysta," he corrected. "You've gotta work that second syllable. Like you're trying to talk around a mouthful of beluga caviar."

"Rude," commented Illya without looking at them. He snapped the pages of his newspaper in irritation.

"Пожалуйста," she tried again earnestly. "I've never even tried caviar. Пожалуйста. Pohzhaluysta. Please."

"Better," Solo nodded. "Swallow the "L" a bit more."

" _Pohzhaluysta_." It came out slightly breathy this time.

Out of the corner of his eye, Solo watched Illya squirm slightly on his lounge chair and pull his towel into his lap. Subtle.

"You're getting there," Solo encouraged her with a grin. "Make the "zhe" sound really count. It's the sexiest letter in their whole alphabet. Imagine you're begging for something."

"Pohzhaluysta.  _Pohzhaaaluysta!_ " She rolled dramatically onto her back and gazed up at them with big, glistening eyes. She reached her arms out towards their loungers, causing her bikini top to hitch up appealingly. Her lower lip trembled as she whispered one more time. " _Pohzhaluysta_. _"_

That did it. Illya swore under his breath and stood up abruptly, jamming his newspaper under his arm. He glared angrily at Solo before striding off towards the hotel in a huff.

Gaby put her arms down. "Did I say it wrong?" she asked, sounding hurt.

"On the contrary, Gabs. I think you said it juuust right."

+1.

By the time Gaby had gathered up her pool things, waved off Solo's knowing smirk and pursued Illya into the hotel, he'd already made it back into his room. She was forced to knock on his door several times before it opened.

His expression was inscrutable. "What do you want?"

"May I come in?" Gaby raised her eyebrow at him.

Illya hesitated, and she lifted her chin aggressively. He wasn't sure how she managed to look so imperious in a wide-brimmed sun hat and bikini, but it was obviously she wasn't going to be deterred. He pushed the door open with a grunt and moved out of her way.

"What was that all about?" she asked, jumping right to her point.

"What was what?" he shrugged. He pointed at his bathroom. "Do you mind if I change first? If we're going to argue, I'd rather not be in my swim trunks."

Gaby glanced down, and given how red her skin flushed suddenly, it was as though she hadn't noticed how his skin-tight Jantzens left very little to the imagination until that very moment. "Yes, I do mind, actually," she coughed. "Why should  _you_  get to put your armour back on? I think I like you this way, feeling a little vulnerable."

Fire flashed in his blue eyes. "I am  _not_  vulnerable," he hissed. "I don't know why you and Solo are teasing me, but I refuse to sit and listen to it."

"Teasing you?" she exclaimed, her mouth dropping open in surprise. "Illya, we are not…"

" _Pohzhaluysta_ ," he seethed, balling his hands into tight firsts.

Confusion clouded her face. "I don't understand, " she retorted. "Was Solo fooling me as well? Does it not mean 'please'?"

Illya made a rude noise of disbelief. "I do not believe for a moment that you are not wise to Solo's game, little mechanic," he scoffed.

She flashed angrily. "I beg your pardon? Are you accusing me of… conspiring?"

" _Pohzhaluysta,_ _"_ his response was infused with steel. "It is a joke? A… what is called… a dare? A double dare? See if you can break me? Well, fine. I break. You win."

Her eyes had gone wide. "Illya," she choked out. "I don't know what I have done, but I am so sorry. I was… I am… trying to make you proud of me," she stammered, feeling like she was dying a little on the inside. "I asked Solo to teach me Russian so that…." she broke off, swallowing hard. "You know, forget it, I am…. I am sorry. I will leave."

She tried to step back to the door, but Illya reached out like lightning and clasped a massive hand around her upper arm. It took all the courage she had to look up at his face. His expression was… unsure.

"So, when you… you beg," he said uncomfortably, "…. just now, by the pool. It was not to tease me?"

"Why would it be teasing you, Illya?" she murmured in exasperation.

He slowly let go of her arm. "Because," he mumbled. "It takes everything I have to not beg for you."

The air had left the room.

Gaby was light-headed, trapped in a vacuum as though she was about to fly apart.

Softly, he continued. "And I would have you beg for me, if my deepest dreams came true. Solo, he… he knows this. I can see in his eyes that he knows. He sees when I look at you and it is written all over my face: Пожалуйста _._ "

She stared hard at his face now, trying to see a trace of it, but all she saw was shame. A cry broke from her lips and she flung herself at him.

Dealing with her guilt was going to be too much for him, he knew it. It was one thing to comfort her when she was hurt or scared, it was another to hold her when she knew how badly he wanted her. Illya had cursed himself. Now he was stuck holding her against his naked chest, where her lips were burning firebrands kisses into his….wait, what?

He choked and staggered backwards. "What are you doing?" he gasped.

Gaby looked nervous. She took a tentative step forward, and placed a trembling palm on his chest. She curled her fingers slightly, and his pulse jumped. Another step towards him, and the fingers of her another hand fluttered over his lips. Illya was too scared, too uncertain to do anything. His heart pounded like a jackhammer; surely Gaby could feel it.

She looked up at him and he could see it in her eyes. It shocked him more than anything to hear her say it:

"Illya."

Her voice trembled.

"Please."


End file.
